“I have no idea when I’ll get out of court. I’ll call you as soon as I’m free,” Jordan said.

“My shift at the café starts at three, and I work until ten. We’ve made night runs before.”

“I know. I’m just not fond of the dark.” Jordan paused at a red light, tapped her finger on the steering wheel.

“Face it; it would have appealed to Mom.”

“I’ll pick you up at the end of your shift, and we’ll have a soda and toast Ma.”

“Sounds good.”

“Everything all right?” Jordan asked. “You have that tone in your voice.”

“What tone?”

“If I told you that, you’d change it. What’s going on?”

“Just feeling down, I guess. Mom would have been fifty-five today. Sucks she’s dead.”

Jordan’s chest tightened a fraction as she imagined alarm bells clanging. “Are you doing okay?”

“I mean, I’m not great, but I’m not doing anything stupid. I swore I would never do that again.”

Addiction shattered promises all the time. “I know. And you’re doing so well.”

“You’re sounding like a mother again.”

When their mother had died, Avery had been twelve and Jordan twenty-two. She’d scuttled her plans for law school and joined the Austin Police Department. It had offered decent pay, good benefits, and stability in their lives.

Avery had been at that perfect storm of raging hormones and middle school, and their mother’s loss had toppled her out of balance. As hard as Jordan had tried to steady her, she could not seem to keep her sister on course. By fourteen, Avery was drinking booze and smoking pot. She’d met Walker when she was twenty-one, started using the hard stuff, and nearly died. She had been clean for two years, but it seemed just like yesterday.

Jordan wanted to remind Avery that Walker was on trial for manslaughter but did not want to stir trouble. She needed to loosen her grip. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m good. Really,” Avery insisted.

“I’ll see you tonight at work.”

“Deal.”

She hung up, shaking the unease that had crept under her skin, and found her way to the courthouse. She parked, located her courtroom, and took a seat in the back. The room was almost empty. She recognized the parents of the dead woman, Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez, sitting behind the prosecution’s table. There was no one sitting behind the defendant’s table except one man.

His shoulders were broad, and he was wearing a white shirt that stretched over what looked like muscles on muscles. She had seen the type at the gym. Guys who turned the workout into a kind of religion. Working shit out for the most part.